The piercing
ring of the phone interrupted the midnight calm. It was
the veterinary hospital where I had taken my 12 ½-year-old
dog, Mattie, for surgery the day before.
"I have
some bad news for you," said the voice on the other
end of the line. "Mattie just expired moments ago."
"What happened?"
I asked, as I tried to catch my breath
"She just
stopped breathing," came the reply. Her death was
unexpected. I'd planned to pick her up the next day.
As I raced to
the hospital, I felt awful for not visiting her the previous
evening, when she was still groggy from the anesthesia.
Come the next day, I was told, when she'd be more alert.
I always thought
Mattie would make it easy on me in the end, when she'd
likely be wracked by arthritis, unable to walk, pleading
to be put out of her misery. At the vet's, I'd comfort
her while the blue liquid that would still her heart entered
her veins. Clean and simple. No loose ends. But life is
messy. Unyielding to expectations. It would not happen
that way at all.
Over the next
several weeks, I struggled with grief so profound I could
never have fathomed its crippling depths. In the house,
I winced at the empty spaces she once filled - under my
desk, the kitchen table, at the foot of my bed. Even in
the backseat of my car, where she sat quietly every day
on the way to the park - her ghost seemed to be everywhere.
I had seen
this sweet dog every day for over 12 years. And now
she's gone.
I adopted her
from the Toledo Area Humane Society on May 18, 1993 after
a DJ, broadcasting from the shelter, told listeners about
a dog and her two puppies needing a home. When I approached
her, the eight-week-old black and grey terrier mix, with
long, lanky legs, submissively rolled over for a belly
rub. Being pack leader, I knew, was not her burning ambition.
Me and Mattie.
We were quite a pair. She seemed to follow me just about
everywhere.
When I couldn't
find an apartment that allowed dogs, I bought a house.
Nothing could seem to separate us.
Leery at first
with strangers, she approached them cautiously before
sitting at their feet, refusing to leave until she got
a reassuring pat on the head. Her love for children seemed
boundless. Not even a couple hard knocks on the head by
an overzealous toddler could diminish her gentle nature.
There was not an aggressive bone in her body. I had great
doubts she could ever defend me. No. Mattie was not a
watchdog, I concluded. She was too busy seeking everyone's
approval. Her tail wagged for the mailman, the paperboy,
the furnace repairman.
She was also
full of surprises.
One day, while
walking in a field behind a school, an English Pointer
charged toward Mattie from a distance, tackling her in
a cloud of dust. Terrified, Mattie got up and fled, with
the Pointer in hot pursuit. Both disappeared over a ridge
that sloped toward the school's parking lot, which led
out onto a busy street. I thought for sure she would get
hit by a car. The Pointer reappeared and ran toward me,
barking and nipping at my feet. I saw Mattie scoot from
underneath a parked car, where she had been hiding, and
roar full throttle toward me before sitting at my feet,
staring down the other dog. A Lassie-like moment, I thought.
Who'd have believed it. I couldn't stop bragging about
her for days.
Her favorite
game was chasing down a foam rubber ball, like a gazelle,
before jumping into the air, with exquisite timing, in
a pirouette so nimble and precise, Barishnikov would have
approved. Then she'd gallop around the yard in an endless
game of "come chase me."
I never realized
until she died how much my life revolved around Mattie.
At dawn, and just before dusk, we'd race out the door
to go to the park. When I worked late and we couldn't
go, she'd greet me as if I were a long lost friend - uncomplaining,
forgiving, happy to see me. No matter how bad my day was,
it was always the same. Returning home, I'd peer through
the window, as I fumbled with my keys, to see her tail
wagging furiously. As the door swung open, she'd dash
outside, running circles around the yard, as if she just
happened upon a field of rawhide.
Every June,
we'd head to a cottage in Michigan, when the cool lake
air had not yet yielded to the ferocious summer heat.
She'd chase geese and ducks along the shoreline and wade
up to her chest to eye bluegill, an elusive prey that
could keep her infinitely busy.
She never strayed
far, always looked over her shoulder to keep me in her
sights. Strangers would always gush at how well she behaved.
I don't ever remember training her. I was one of those
fortunate beings, I thought, to have the perfect dog.
As the sun dipped
below the horizon, Mattie would sit next to me at the
edge of the dock, waiting patiently to hear the whirr
of my reel, which shot a surge of adrenaline through her
body, and jolt her to attention. This was her chance to
take a few nips at the slippery game before I threw it
back in. Occasionally, she tumbled off the dock and into
the lake, so overcome with anticipation as I pulled in
my line. She'd plunge to the bottom like a lead weight,
bubbles of air percolating to the surface. I always dropped
everything to go after her. Shivering in the cool night
air, she'd shake the excess water off her long terrier
fur and walk right back to the edge of the dock, wondering
what all the fuss was about.
It's been five
months since Mattie died. The heavy grief is just starting
to lift. A few light-hearted moments come trickling back
in.
Like the night
I caught a fish off the dock with a lure. Mattie, as usual,
had edged her way toward the unlucky bluegill, which lay
in the grass as I turned to grab a flashlight. Suddenly,
the fish had managed to flip onto Mattie's back, hooking
part of the lure into her thick coat. Mattie's eyes got
as big as saucers, and off she went, into the night, running
as if she'd seen a ghost. The hunter becoming the prey.
She frantically craned her neck over her shoulder, trying
to pull the fish off, as she sprinted farther into the
darkness. I held onto my pole, wondering how this was
going to end, my reel straining from the weight of a 55-pound
terrier running like a racehorse about to cross a finish
line.
Somehow, during
all the commotion, the fish decided it had had enough,
and spit the hook out. Mattie ran back to the cottage,
up the back porch stairs, through the doorway, and under
a coffee table, where I spent the next 10 minutes with
a pair of wire cutters delicately snipping off the barbed
hook still lightly snagged in her coat.
The other day,
for the first time, I could feel her becoming a memory.
And I was afraid I would forget her.
Donna Radoci-Kruta,
my neighbor, told me there is usually one pet that stands
out from the rest, one you remember more than any other.
Though she's had 13 cats and dogs at various times, she
still speaks fondly of a 14-year-old cat, Baby Morris,
that died in 1994. "They steal your heart totally.
You never forget them," she said.
And that was
Mattie.
She made my
life gentle, softened the edges. With Mattie, I learned
to appreciate things I'd taken for granted: The quiet
stillness of freshly fallen snow as we walked in the park
on a cold winter's night, the warmth of the sun's first
rays, filtered through the early morning mist. And loyalty,
forgiveness, courage, unconditional love, living for the
moment.
The guilt of
not being able to say goodbye to an old friend is being
replaced by tender memories of how much she enriched my
life. And a confidence knowing I will eventually see her
again - in the eyes of a dog, waiting in a shelter for
a chance to steal my heart.
